


Antidisestablishmentarianism

by throughadoor



Category: Macdonald Hall - Gordon Korman
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:27:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21834406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/throughadoor/pseuds/throughadoor
Summary: "Antidisestablishmentarianism.""Sorry, what?""You're proposing the disestablishment of our relationship and I'm, like … anti that. I'm opposed to that. Very opposed. Emphatically opposed."
Relationships: Boots O'Neal/Bruno Walton
Comments: 23
Kudos: 106
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Antidisestablishmentarianism

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kormantic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kormantic/gifts).



**Prologue  
Epic Electrogenetic**

Years later, Boots would realize that the reason for the best thing that ever happened to him could be traced back to Bruno's fervent belief that one last spectacular prank was the only appropriate farewell to their time at Macdonald Hall. That, and his desire to use the Scrimmage's graduation ceremony as the stage for his public tribute.

"I still don't understand why you're going to all this trouble just to hijack graduation at Scrimmage's," Wilbur said. "After the thing with the sprinklers and the CPR dummy at the spring dance, we're not even allowed to _go_ to their graduation, right?"

Mark tilted his head. "Technically, according to the terms of the restraining order, we're not even supposed to cross the double yellow line running down the center of Highway 48."

Bruno waved off their concerns with the same amount of flourish that he'd put into whirling the CPR dummy around the dance floor at the Spring Fling. "Listen," he said, "just because a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it blast the guitar solo from 'Epic Electrogenetic'--"

"I don't think that's how that metaphor works," Boots muttered under his breath.

"Details," Bruno replied loftily.

"Anyway," Mark continued, "he's obviously afraid that if he pulls anything at our graduation, The Fish will tear up his diploma on the spot."

"More details."

Elmer turned around in his seat to face the rest of them, peering up through his thick glasses. "Excuse me," he said, "but I believe the testing phase is now complete."

They were packed into Room 201, in a loose semi-circle around Elmer's desk while he sat in front of his computer. They were waiting for him to finish the program that would send a signal that would take control of the Miss Scrimmage's PA system. This would allow Bruno to replace a pre-recorded version of "Pomp and Circumstance" with the lead single from Electric Catfish's newest album. 

"Great job, Elmer!" Bruno said, clapping him on the back. "What do we do now, where's the big red button?"

"The program requires a complex alphanumeric password in order to execute the command," Elmer explained. "I've selected 'antidisestablishmentarianism,' all lower case, replacing each instance of the letter A with the numeral four."

"Antidisestablish-what?" Bruno sputtered. 

"Antidisestablishmentarianism. It's the longest non-scientific word in the Oxford Dictionary Canada. My preference would have been to select an alphanumeric construction based on the word 'pseudopseudohypoparathyroidism,' which of course refers to a variant form of hereditary osteodystrophy--"

"Of course," Mark interjected, his face schooled into a solemn expression. 

"--but I didn't want to select a password that would be prohibitively difficult for the rest of you to remember. I'm assuming, of course, that none of you have a particular interest in rheumatology, so--" 

"Can we hurry this up?" This interruption came from Wilbur. "It's taco night and I want to get there early in case Sidney swan dives into the guacamole like he did last week."

In the absence of a big red button, Bruno insisted on being the one to type in the password. It took a few tries for him to get it right, with Elmer finally spelling out each letter and number in the sequence while Wilbur grumbled in the background. Bruno tried to request a drumroll and was denied by Wilbur's murderous glare. Then, he pressed down on the keyboard to execute the program with as much dramatic emphasis as he could muster and said, "Okay, who wants tacos?"

As they were shuffling out of the room, Boots turned to Elmer and said, "So, what's antidisestablishmentarianism?"

"According to the ODC, it was a nineteenth century political faction that opposed disestablishmentarianism, which was a movement that sought to disestablish the Church of England as the official church of the United Kingdom."

If Boots had learned nothing else over the last six years, he had developed a near-native fluency in Elmer-Drimsdale-to-English. "So, there were some people who were against something and these guys were against being against it?"

Elmer nodded primly. "I suppose, essentially, yes."

The next day, at just after twelve o'clock in the afternoon, the sound of Electric Catfish's screeching guitars carried over the treetops and across the invisible border that ran down the center of Highway 48. Boots watched with equal parts amusement and exasperation as Bruno had a good laugh and then went back to finding new ways to procrastinate instead of studying for their upcoming exams. Due to an unresolved injustice that Bruno had been bemoaning for their entire school career, the academic year at Scrimmage's was a week shorter than the Hall, so their exams wouldn't start until the next day.

Later that night, Boots was staring into the abyss of his sparse Canadian History notes while Bruno tried to convince him that this was the perfect time to teach themselves the rules of Oxford Stud poker.

"I mean, sure, you're gonna need to know that history crap for the exam tomorrow, but you're going to need to know this stuff for all of next year, so it's kind of almost _more_ important, don't you think?"

Boots rolled his eyes. "What do you mean? Did you enroll me in the University of Poker when I wasn't paying attention?"

"No, I just--playing cards is a good way to make new friends, right?"

He looked up from a cryptic diagram about the events leading up to the Constitution Act of 1867, and saw that Bruno's mouth was drawn in a tight line. The topic of next year and how it would be different was veering into a territory that Bruno was currently refusing to acknowledge. 

"LIsten, Bruno--" Boots started to say. But, before the conversational waters could get any more choppy, they were interrupted by a tapping sound on the outside of their window.

If Boots's life was a horror movie, he might have been worried about a serial killer or a vengeful spirit lurking on the other side of the glass. But of course, it was just Cathy and Diane, which was marginally less terrifying.

"Hold still, Walton," Cathy said once she'd vaulted herself over the window sill. "I came over here to strangle you with my bare hands." She looked pissed and they both looked a little disheveled, still wearing their powder blue graduation robes over cut-off shorts.

Seemingly oblivious, Bruno turned around backwards in his desk chair. "Did you like our surprise?" he asked brightly. 

Cathy's eyes widened. "Are you kidding me right now?"

"See," Diane said. "Look, I told you they didn't do it on purpose."

Boots shook his head, wondering if it was too late to trade Cathy for a nice, reasonable serial killer. "What are you talking about?" he asked.

"I'm talking about 'Ladies of Golden Light.'"

"What?"

Cathy stomped over to Bruno's bed and sat down in a huff. "'Ladies of Golden Light' is an original song written by Miss Scrimmage. It was the school's official song for the first twenty years after it opened, until someone on the Board of Governors managed to convince her that it was, uh--"

"Terrible?" Diane added helpfully.

Cathy stopped glowering for a moment and snickered. "Basically, yeah." Then her face clouded over again. "As I was saying," she continued, resuming her diatribe, "I have spent the last three months pretending to care about Crochet Club, because Crochet Club is on Sunday afternoons and that's the only time Miss Scrimmage gets into the brandy. I don't think you fully understand that I had to pretend that I wanted to make dishcloths for my trousseau. My _trousseau_."

"What's a--" Bruno started to say and then, in a rare burst of insight, seemed to realize he was better off keeping his mouth shut.

"The point is that I did it all so that I could get a recording of Miss Scrimmage singing 'Ladies of Golden Light' to play at graduation. But then you had to go screw everything up!"

Boots leaned forward in his desk chair, feeling like a small woodland creature standing in the crosshairs of a spotted tundra leopard. "We're really sorry, Cathy," he said, "We honestly had no idea. I guess we haven't seen each other much since the restraining order and everything."

Cathy snorted. "Whatever. Please. It's graduation! You should have known that I would have something amazing planned. You have your own graduation, why did you have to ruin _mine_?"

Bruno's expression brightened. "Maybe you could play 'Ladies of Golden Light' at our graduation next weekend," he said. "And there's no way The Fish could trace that back to us. It's perfect!"

Diane sighed. "Yeah, except for the part where our graduation was today," she said. "Our parents are already here to move us out tomorrow morning." She was perched on the edge of the window sill and now she turned to give Cathy a meaningful look. "So, no matter what else may have happened today, we came over here to say goodbye, isn't that right?" she intoned.

"Ugh, whatever," Cathy said. "I came over to let you know that you won't get away with this. I'll have my revenge. When you least expect it, I'll be there."

Once Cathy had issued a few more ominous threats, Diane convinced her that they should get back to their room so they could finish packing. Boots and Bruno each exchanged an awkward hug with Diane and offered Cathy an apologetic wave from a safe distance.

Cathy turned around to narrow her eyes at them before climbing out the window. "Just you wait, Walton," she said. "When you absolutely least expect it."

While Boots and Bruno may not have known when to expect Cathy's revenge, they should have expected the summons to The Fish's office the following morning. 

"I am sure that you are well-aware of the rules at this institution, and I imagine that you are also aware of the current legal proceedings which forbid all staff and students from stepping onto the eastbound side of Highway 48, let alone onto the campus of that--" The Fish's voice became strangled for a moment before he composed himself again. "--that _woman's_ school."

The two of them squirmed under his glare, shifting in place on the infamous bench that sat across from the Headmaster's desk. "Mr. Sturgeon," Bruno began earnestly, "I swear on Boots's life that we have not stepped foot onto Miss Scrimmage's since before she filed got that restraining order."

The Fish narrowed his eyes and the temperature in the office seemed to drop by several degrees. "Indeed," he said. "And since there is no evidence to contradict your story, we will set that particular matter aside. However, I believe that this is an opportune moment to remind you both that the graduation ceremonies at Macdonald Hall are a solemn occasion that would not be improved upon with any--" The Fish paused and seemed to be trying to choose his words carefully. "--unplanned modifications. Do I make myself clear?"

"Absolutely, sir."

"Very well, then, you are dismissed." Bruno made a beeline for the door, but before Boots could follow him, The Fish said, "Mr. O'Neal, a moment."

'Yes, sir?"

"It's my understanding that yourself and Mr. Walton will be matriculating to different universities in the fall."

"Um … yeah. I mean, yes, sir. He's going to U of O and I'm going to Ryerson." Of course, that hadn't been the original plan, but there had been an unforeseen series of events that Bruno refused to talk about because he said it would give him a brain aneurysm. Apparently, he blamed it all on Canada Post. 

"Well, I'm sure that will be an adjustment." The Fish's steely glare seemed to soften for a moment, but Boots thought it must have been a trick of the light. "But, perhaps it will also be an opportunity for a new chapter."

Deep down in a place that Boots never planned to acknowledge or examine, he didn't totally disagree. He had started to notice certain things--like the feeling in the pit of his stomach when he watched Bruno pretend to romance the CPR dummy at the Spring Fling--that were becoming harder and harder to ignore. The best solution was to put some distance between himself and Bruno. Time apart would either to get the whole weird thing out of his system or at least save him from monumental embarrassment. 

"I'm sure you're right, sir," Boots said, shifting from one foot to the other. "I should probably go get ready for the history exam, so--"

"Yes, of course," The Fish replied. "You're dismissed, O'Neal." 

After that, finals and graduation and move-out tumbled one after the other like rocks in an avalanche and time seemed to race forward like it was trying to stay one step ahead of the pile-up. It was easy for the prank and Cathy's subsequent threats to slip into a far corner of Boots' mind, until they were nothing but hazy memories that surfaced on the rare occasion that he heard the guitar solo from "Epic Electrogenetic" on the radio.

**Chapter One  
Five Years Later**

All throughout their time at university, Bruno managed to keep them circling each other's orbit: tagging along with the O'Neal family when they visited Edward for Founder's Day weekend, showing up at the dorms at Ryerson with a pack of cards and three bags of popcorn, inviting himself home with Boots for winter break the year his own parents took off on a cruise to Aruba. After they graduated, Bruno led the pack of Macdonald Hall and Scrimmage's alumni who found their way back to Toronto, joining those like Boots and Mark and Cathy, who had never left. 

Bruno returned to the city via the waitlist for the law school at UT. The process dragged out long enough that Boots had already re-upped for another year on his lease for the apartment that he shared with this guy Sam, who he'd met playing intramural hockey. Boots had mirrored Bruno's disappointment when he'd shared the news, but he was secretly a little bit relieved. There were some things he'd figured out about himself that he hadn't figured out how to tell Bruno just yet.

It was great to have him nearby, though. They still saw each other constantly, at unplanned intervals and scheduled times like Cathy's monthly game night. 

"This sangria is great," Boots said abruptly. He and Bruno were sitting on the floor in Cathy's living room, drinking out of juice cups and staining their teeth purple.

"Thanks," Cathy said. She was lying down at one end of the couch, with her legs dangling over the arm. It was a pose that suggested that this was going to be one of those game nights where they never quite managed to break out Trivial Pursuit. "It's my Aunt Phoebe's secret recipe," she added. 

On the other side of the room, one of Cathy's friends from university raised her hand like a little kid waiting to be called on in a classroom. "Um, wait, is that your aunt who was a groupie in the seventies and lives on a llama farm in Mexico?" 

"Uh-huh."

"So, what's the secret?" Boots asked. He leaned forward, feeling conspiratorial. Just as he was about to fall on his face, he rocked back again, like an anchor buoy. 

Cathy laughed. "For every bottle of wine, you add a bottle of vodka. And some Triple Sec. But not a whole bottle of that."

"Huh," Boots said. 

"Yeah," Bruno said. He'd come straight to Cathy's place from school. Compared to Boots, he'd gotten a late start, but he'd been making a valiant effort to catch up. "That … explains some things."

Boots looked at him and started giggling, and then Bruno was laughing too, and then Bruno got the hiccups and that was how Boots knew they were very, very drunk. 

Once it became clear that he'd been chugging 100 proof fruit juice, Boots decided he might as well steer into the skid. The next couple hours were a blur and he only had a fragmented recollection of the end of the night. There was a moment when he tried to do a handstand in Cathy's hallway that seemed to segue directly to a mangled singalong version of the Scrimmage's school song in the backseat of Cathy's car. Everything that happened after that was a blank.

When he woke up the next morning, the first thing he noticed was that he'd acquired a third foot. The two feet he recognized as his own were a little bit chilly, sticking out from under the edge of a crumpled bed sheet. But, there was also a third foot tangled between them, hooked around one of his ankles. Still oozing toward awakeness, he turned his head so he could open his eyes and inspect the interloping body part. That was when the hammers started pounding on the inside of his skull and he realized he had the mother of all hangovers.

He rolled onto his side and regretted it immediately. Based on the taste in his mouth and the violent lurch in his stomach, he'd swallowed a dead frog sometime in the night. When the skull hammers reduced to a dull roar, he tried opening his eyes again. 

By now, he was awake enough to realize it was unlikely he'd grown a third foot in his sleep. But once he saw what had actually happened, he thought a surplus body part would have been less of a shock. Attached to the foot was a bare leg. On the side of the leg was a pale L-shaped scar, the kind a person might get when they were living in a dorm, helping their roommate carry a sharp-cornered foot locker up three flights of stairs. The leg was attached to Bruno. 

Boots was in bed with Bruno, and he was pretty sure they were both naked, and he had no idea how they'd gotten there. 

He drew his eyes up to look at Bruno's face. He was dead to the world, with his mouth hanging open and a line of drool dribbling from his lower lip to his collarbone. Before Boots could spiral into the full-blown panic that this situation deserved, Bruno let out a low groan. His body tensed up like he'd been kicked in the nuts and his eyes blinked open. He stared at Boots for a moment that felt like stretched out long enough to shift plate tectonics and then before Boots could even open his mouth, Bruno shot out of bed and bolted for the bathroom.

And, well, at least one question had been answered. They were definitely both naked. 

For the next few minutes, Boots lay paralyzed in the bed, listening to the familiar unpleasant morning-after symphony of retching sounds followed by toilet flushes. When that stopped, there was a long pause, and then the bathroom door cracked open.

"Uh, do you see -- are my clothes out there?"

Boots sat up, hands pressed to the sides of his head to try and keep his brain from sloshing around in his skull. He scanned the floor of the apartment and spotted a couple heaps of clothing. 

"Yeah," Boots managed to croak out. "Just a sec."

He gingerly climbed out of the bed, trying to ignore how standing and moving his arms and legs made his eyeballs throb and his stomach protest. He scooped up Bruno's clothes and handed them through the crack in the bathroom door with an outstretched arm, like he was trying to toss a raw steak into a lion's cage at the zoo. At that point, he remembered that he was _also_ completely naked. He reached down to grab his own clothes and put them on with the speed and coordination of a shambling zombie. 

Not sure what to do next, he walked over to the kitchenette and poured himself a glass of water. Drinking water when he was hungover always made him think of sea monkeys. He took big sip and pictured each of his brain cells slowly expanding and coming back to life as they were rehydrated. Needing something to do with his hands, he refilled his glass.

"Uh, sorry," Bruno said from behind him, and Boots had to grip the edge of the countertop so he didn't jump out of his skin. He turned around to face Bruno, who was standing in the space between the bed and the kitchenette. He knew Bruno's studio apartment was small, but it had never felt so claustrophobically tiny before. "Do you need to, uh--" Bruno pointed over his shoulder at the bathroom. 

He ran his tongue across the roof of his mouth and grimaced. Even after two glasses of water, it still felt and tasted like rancid garbage. "I think I already did," he said. He held out the water glass. When Bruno stepped forward to take it, he got a strong whiff of what smelled like grape juice and paint thinner. Bruno muttered his thanks before staggering across the room to sit down on the edge of his futon couch.

Boots couldn't help but notice that the futon was still folded in the upright position, meaning that he hadn't come over here with the intention of crashing on the couch and then somehow been teleported into Bruno's bed while he was passed out.

"Um, so, what happened last night?" Bruno asked. 

Boots winced, rubbing the bridge of his nose with two fingers. "The last thing I remember is Cathy giving us a ride home," he said. 

"I think I kinda remember being in her car, and you … singing maybe?" Bruno said. "But that's it."

"So we came back here, and we--"

"I don't know," Bruno said. "I mean, who knows what happened. Clearly we were both extremely wasted."

Boots's head was still clouded with the dull roar of the skull hammers. That was his only excuse for not agreeing with Bruno and hoping they could pretend the whole thing never happened. "C'mon," he said. "I've crashed here when I was drunk before, and we never--"

"Never what?"

He looked down at the floor. He'd put on yesterday's socks along with the rest of his clothes, and they made his feet feel as clammy and gross as the rest of his body parts. "I don't know! Did … naked stuff."

"Naked stuff?" Bruno teased.

"Fuck off," Boots snapped. His eyes stayed glued to the floor. "I'm glad you think this is hilarious." 

"What do you mean, like … sex stuff?"

"I'm sorry." Boots felt increasingly sick to his stomach, but he didn't think that had anything to do with the sangria. "I can't do this," he said. "I'm gonna get out of here."

"Hey, no, don't do that." Bruno leaned forward, and then seemed to regret the sudden movement. "Just give me a second," he said. "So you don't remember what happened, but you think we, uh, that we -- _allegedly_ , that we allegedly messed around, or something."

He still couldn't look Bruno in the eye. When he opened his mouth again, his voice sounded small and awful. "It's, I just--I mean, what do _you_ think happened?"

Bruno shrugged. "Like I said, I don't know." Now that they were both awake and he'd had some water and everything, the question of what had happened while they were blacked out appeared to be less imperative to him. 

"Look, I'm sorry," Boots said again. "I'm really sorry. I can't do this right now." He stumbled across the room, shoving his feet into his shoes and getting the hell out of there.

**Chapter Two  
A Big Gay Unrequited Torch**

Boots spent the rest of the weekend hiding in his bedroom, avoiding Bruno's phone calls, dodging Sam's visiting long-distance girlfriend and hoping to be obliterated by an asteroid or abducted by aliens or something. He wasn't that lucky, though, and on Monday he had no choice but to drag himself through his morning routine and leave the house for his job working on the fundraising team at a children's charity. His office was a fifteen minute walk from his apartment, which allowed him to get in some last-minute mental flagellation before he had to try and fake his way through an eight-hour workday. 

He'd imagined an inhibitionless drunken hook-up with Bruno, oh, maybe a couple million times over the last few years. It was a massive cliche, but he'd never claimed that his repressed fantasy life would score extra points for originality. And now, it had somehow actually _happened_ , but the space in his memories where Friday night ought to be was a big fat blank. He and Bruno had gotten drunk and done … something that involved the two of them ending up naked in bed together. And Bruno had acted nonplussed, but once he was thinking clearly, he was going to realize that Boots must have taken advantage of the situation.

Boots slowed up his step as he came to an intersection. He waited for the light to change, head slumped forward to stare at the pavement. 

There was a thing he did whenever he caught himself watching how Bruno's shoulders stretched out his old t-shirts or when he paid too much attention to the way their knees pressed together squeezed in the backseat of Cathy's cramped two-door hatchback. He would force himself to fast-forward past all the good parts of his secret embarrassing hookup daydreams and picture the worst-case scenario. Bruno feeling betrayed and disgusted. Bruno unable to look him in the eye. Bruno never talking to him again. 

When the light changed, Boots stepped forward into the crosswalk with the other commuters, still wrapped up in his thoughts.

Everything happening right now was something he'd already imagined in excruciating, painful detail. The worst part was that he'd always thought there would be a small amount of relief mixed in with the inevitable humiliation and regret. Because he'd been keeping this secret forever, and at least that part was over now. But it was hard to feel relieved about something that he didn't remember happening.

Still clinging to his avoidance strategy, Boots manufactured an excuse to work late. But, when he got home that night, Bruno was waiting on the stoop outside of his apartment.

"Hey, asshole."

Boots folded his arms across his chest, less to intimidate and more to try and brace for impact. "Look, I get that you're probably pissed," he said. "Can you just say whatever you want to say and get it over with?"

Bruno gave him a strange look. "Well," he said, "I'm pissed that you avoided me all weekend."

"And?" 

"And what?"

"What about the other stuff?"

"You mean, uh, the stuff from Friday night?" Bruno shrugged. "Why would I be pissed at you about that? Did you remember something about what happened?"

"No. I still can't remember anything."

"Yeah, me neither."

"Seriously?"

"Nothing," Bruno said. "So I don't really get why I'm supposed to be mad at you."

"Look," said Boots, "I know I'm the one who's been avoiding things--"

"Avoiding _me_ , you mean."

"Yeah," Boots said, hating how small his voice sounded. "Okay. Avoiding you." He tightened the fold of his arms across his chest, cupping one elbow in the palm of his hand. "But I guess we need to … we should talk about what happened."

Bruno gave him a withering look. "You think?" 

"Okay, fine." He jerked his head in the direction of his own apartment. "But, Sam's girlfriend is visiting from Manitoba, and that's a whole thing. So, maybe we could go to your place? I mean, if that's okay with you."

Bruno stood up, and Boots saw that he still had all of his school stuff with him. "We can talk about this literally wherever you want. But can we please just pick somewhere, so I can put down this goddamn backpack?"

Even though his entire life was still in the process of going up in flames, Boots allowed himself to crack a small smile. "I justl can't believe that you, of all people, willingly signed up for three more years of school."

"Well, yeah, but there were those six years at the Hall when I barely paid attention, so it kind of evens out."

There were two pieces of actual furniture in Bruno's apartment: the mattress and the futon couch. His clothes moved back and forth between three plastic laundry baskets and his books and the rest of his miscellaneous crap were still in boxes, which he'd managed to put to surprisingly versatile use. He'd placed one next to the bed for a nightstand, another one in front of the couch for a coffee-table-slash-computer-desk and used a third box as a makeshift TV stand. 

After Bruno let them into the apartment, he walked straight over to the couch, kicking his feet up onto the box that he'd put into service as an ottoman. Boots lingered close to the door, hands stuffed into his pockets. He might have been avoiding Bruno to delay this conversation, but now he just wanted to get it over with so he could go lick his wounds for a couple eternities. "Listen. I'm sorry. What I did was--"

"What you did?" Bruno raised an eyebrow. "So what, now you suddenly remember what happened?"

"No, but--"

"Look, I mean -- we were drunk. Stuff happens."

"I don't know, I think the two of us messing around is a little more awkward than that time you peed in Mr. Fudge's potted plant."

"Allegedly messing around."

Boots let out a bitter laugh. "Right," he said. " _Allegedly_. You already sound like a lawyer."

Bruno shrugged "I just think that--at least half the reason it's so fucking awkward is because we don't remember what happened."

"Yeah, I guess," Boots said, feeling doubtful. He thought that if they remembered what had happened, it would just be a different kind of awkward. 

He was still hovering by the door. After a moment, Bruno let out an exasperated sigh and waved a hand in his direction. "C'mon, would you come sit down already?" He patted the spot next to himself on the couch. "And take off your jacket, jeez."

Boots reluctantly shrugged out of his jacket and took a seat at the other end of the couch. For a few moments, they both sat there in silence. Bruno's mouth opened and closed a couple times before he said, "If neither of us can remember what happened, what makes you so sure you did something so terrible?"

Boots clenched his jaw. He knew that it was long odds that he'd be able to get out of this debacle without Bruno finding out the truth. But he wasn't anxious to admit that he'd been carrying a big gay unrequited torch for him since before they'd left Macdonald Hall. 

For the moment, Bruno seemed to take Boots's non-answer for an answer and kept going. "What if--" He paused to consider his words. "What if we, like, did something to trigger our memories? Maybe that would help."

"What, like sodium pentothal?" 

Bruno balked. "No, you lunatic."

Sodium pentothal was one of the more questionable methods of memory recovery that Boots had discovered over the weekend at the bottom of an investigative rabbit hole. Without thinking, he blurted out the one other possibility that popped into his head. 

"So, what, like if we kissed or something?"

Bruno tilted his head, a pensive look crossing his face. "Yeah, something like that, I guess."

"Wait, you think we _kissed_?" 

"I don't know, what do you think? We just stared at the ceiling while we jerked each other off like drunk sex robots?"

"You really think we--" Boots waved a vague hand at his own lap. Rising panic was making it difficult for him to form complete sentences. He'd imagined this conversation going in a variety of embarrassing and painful directions, but this had not been one of them.

"Dude, what are you even talking about? You were the one who was so convinced that we--" Bruno paused, mimicking Boots's hand waving gesture, "--in the first place."

"Well, yeah, but I doubt we got naked to give each other sponge baths." Boots was trying for bravado but knew he just sounded like a petulant child. He waited for Bruno to offer a sarcastic reply. Instead, Bruno slid across the couch, so that they were both sitting at one end, knees almost touching. 

"Look, maybe if we--" When Bruno's words trailed off, Boots glanced up at him, an expectant look on his face. "I'm not gonna do it unless you say it's okay," Bruno told him. He sounded deeply earnest in a way that made Boots's stomach ache. If there was an amount of willpower that would have made it possible to say no to what Bruno was offering, it exceeded anything he possessed. 

He nodded a single time. "It's okay," he said, even as his heart started to play an Electric Catfish guitar solo inside his chest.

Bruno turned further toward him, bumping their knees together. That small point of contact seemed to light up every nerve ending in Boots's body. There was a real possibility that he might stroke out if things went any further. 

"Alright, let me just try--" Bruno reached out for Boots with both hands, but ended up with one hand hovering near Boots's leg and the other above his opposite shoulder, like he was a awkwardly-shaped piece of furniture that Bruno couldn't figure out how to pick up. "Just hold still."

Bruno leaned forward. He brought their mouths together in a dry kiss, and then pulled back as quickly as the press of a rubber stamp.

"So, do you remember anything?" Boots asked. He twisted his hands in his lap so he wouldn't be tempted to reach up and touch his lips. Their mouths had only been connected for half a second and they were chalking up the whole thing to some weird memory regression experiment, but he still couldn't believe that Bruno Walton had actually kissed him. 

"Nope."

"Yeah, me either." Boots's eyes darted down at his lap. He kept expecting the couch to turn into a killer whale, so he'd have definitive proof that this was a very vivid dream.

Bruno frowned. He didn't seem to realize it, but his hands were still hovering in mid-air. "Maybe because that was kind of like kissing my grandmother."

"Wow," Boots said, letting out a hollow laugh. "I don't know if I should be offended or concerned for your upbringing."

"No, I just mean, maybe if it was more like--"

Bruno leaned in again. He settled one hand on Boots's knee and the other behind his head on the couch cushion. He brushed their lips together and this time his mouth lingered, nipping and sucking at his bottom lip. Then pulled back just enough to tilt his head and slant their mouths together at a better angle. 

When he felt Bruno's tongue lick at the seam of his lips, he opened his mouth to let him in. Then they were _really_ kissing, their lips pressed together while their tongues thrust into each others' mouths. He felt like he was pouring all of his shock and surprise and confusion into the kiss and it felt like Bruno was doing the same. 

Bruno started rubbing his hand in lazy circles on Boots's knee. This prompted the dim realization that his own hands were still clenched in his lap, his fingernails digging sharp half-moons into his palms. He'd just started to let one of his hands creep toward Bruno's waist when Bruno leaned back, pulling their mouths apart. Boots searched his expression; he looked flushed and out of breath, but not repulsed or anything. He kept his hand curled over Boots's kneecap. 

A few minutes of kissing had turned Boots's brain into scrambled eggs. He struggled to clear his thoughts and focus on why they were doing this in the first place. "Remember anything yet?" he asked, unable to stop his words from coming out shaky.

"No. Maybe we should try--" Bruno shifted away from Boots, leaning back and bringing down the arm that had been resting on the back of the couch. Boots tilted his head. At first, he didn't understand what Bruno was suggesting; he realized a second too late that Bruno wanted them to get horizontal. By then, there was no way to avoid the collision between Bruno's elbow and Boots's face. 

"Shit!" Boots startled and jerked back. A sharp pain shot through his nose. When he brought a hand up to his face, his nose felt hot and his fingers came away smeared with blood. 

"Oh my God," Bruno said. "Oh my God, holy shit, I'm sorry, hang on." He grabbed a t-shirt that was draped over the arm of the couch and held it up to Boots's nose. 

Boots was stunned and a little woozy. He felt like he'd been hit by a two-by-four, metaphorically because of the kissing and literally because of the nose bleed. He reached up to shift the pressure of the wad of fabric against his nose, and ended up with his hand curved around Bruno's. 

Bruno let his hand slip out from under Boots's. "I'm really sorry," he said again, pressing the palms of his hands to his temples. "Do you want me to get you some ice or something?"

Boots shook his head, and the sour taste of blood filled his mouth and made his stomach rebel. He pushed up from the couch and managed to make it to the bathroom before he puked. That actually seemed to help, and once he'd rinsed out his mouth and applied pressure to stop the blood gushing out of his nose, he almost felt human again. When he walked out of the bathroom, he held out a fistful of fabric and saw that now looked like a piece of wardrobe from an axe murderer movie.

"Sorry, I kind of ruined your shirt."

Bruno looked down at the shirt and then back up at Boots. "Well, I kind of almost ruined your _face_ , so I think we're even."

Boots forced himself to laugh in agreement. Whatever weird spell had fallen over them before, a bloody nose was an understandable mood killer.

Bruno rubbed the back of his neck, looking sheepish. "Maybe we should just call it a night," he said. 

Boots's heart sank. "Yeah, sure," he said, trying to sound casual. He gestured with the bloody shirt. "Just let me rinse this out and then I can take off."

"What? No, don't be stupid. Stay here. I promise I'll keep my weaponized elbows to myself."

"You sure?"

"It's pretty late. And you already said that Sam's girlfriend is at your place, right? Let's just go to sleep, maybe this will all make more sense in the morning."

It wasn't that late, but Boots felt wrung out and exhausted, and Bruno looked the same. He doubted that he'd be able to fall asleep any time this century, but he nodded and said, "Yeah, sure."

They both stood up and started getting ready to go to bed. While Bruno was in the bathroom, Boots stripped down to his boxers and a t-shirt. He went about the business of folding down the futon mattress and spreading out the afghan that was draped over the back of the couch. The couch where he'd been sitting when Bruno had kissed him. He wondered if he'd ever be able to sit on this couch again without getting a hard-on.

**Chapter Three  
Sleep Now, Freak Out Tomorrow**

Boots was already tucked under the afghan in the dark when Bruno came out of the bathroom. He listened to him walk over to the bed, and then to the creak and groan of the mattress and the rustling noises of him settling himself under the blankets. He listened to the distant hum of traffic coming from outside and the low, even sound of Bruno's breathing. 

He listened for long enough that he assumed Bruno had fallen asleep. But then, through the darkness, Bruno said, "When I told you that you should stay, I didn't mean over there."

"What?"

"I just mean -- I don't know what the hell we're doing here, but I don't think we're going to put the genie back in the bottle if you sleep on my shitty futon."

Boots's stomach did an unexpected somersault. Before he could lose his nerve, he pulled back the afghan and got up from the couch. 

Bruno's apartment was tiny. There couldn't have been more than ten steps from the couch to the bed. They felt like the longest ten steps of Boots's life. When he got to the foot of the bed, he could see a dim outline of Bruno, partially illuminated by the glow of a street light coming from outside. He was lying flat on his back, one arm thrown up and wrapped around the pillow under his head, sheets bunched up at his waist. His eyes were closed, like he knew that Boots would be too nervous to get into bed with him otherwise. 

Boots slipped under the sheets on the other side of the bed. Most nights he slept on his side, but he couldn't figure out if he should face toward Bruno or away from him. Instead, he mirrored Bruno's position and lay down on his back, arms rigid at his sides like a dead body in a mortuary drawer. After a moment, there was a slight rustle under the sheets, and he felt the soft touch of Bruno's hand on his wrist.

"I don't want this to be weird," Boots blurted out. He was amazed he could keep his words steady when it felt like there was a boulder in his throat.

"I dunno, I think it's already weird."

"Yeah, I guess." Boots looked up at the ceiling. His daydream scenarios had always skipped past the actual logistics of how two guys who'd been platonic friends most of their lives would decide it was a good idea to start sexing each other up. Real life was a lot more complicated. "Maybe we should try getting drunk again."

Bruno barked out a sharp laugh. "Are you kidding me? No way. It's been three days and I think I'm still hungover."

"Yeah, fair enough."

Bruno took a deep breath. "I still don't remember anything," he said. "And I never did anything like that before. But what we were doing just now, I really liked it. Well, up until the part where I clocked you in the nose and made you lose your lunch."

"I liked it, too."

Those four words were all Boots could manage to choke out, and they felt like nothing compared to what Bruno had just confessed. But it was enough to decide something for Bruno and, without warning, he rolled over. There hadn't been much space between them to begin with, so he ended up half on top of Boots, his chin hooked over his nearest shoulder. 

Boots gasped, feeling the weight of Bruno's body pressed down on top of his own. He'd been half-hard since their knees brushed together on the couch and if Bruno shifted any closer, he was going to be able to feel it. 

"You may have heard that I sometimes come up with crazy plans without really thinking things through."

"No shit," Boots said. It was a pointed but less-than-eloquent summary of his thoughts and he was rewarded with the rumble of Bruno's laughter in his ear.

Boots wanted to laugh, too, mostly because he was feeling a little bit hysterical. He was lying in bed with the firm weight of another guy's body pinning him to the mattress. And not just any guy, but _Bruno_. 

"If I had to get blackout drunk to figure out that I wanted this--" Bruno gulped before he continued. Pressed close together like they were, Boots could feel the movement of Bruno's throat against his collarbone. "That's not … great? But I can't, I don't want to--"

This time Bruno didn't need to lean in, because he was already right there. When he turned his head to the side, Boots was waiting to cover Bruno's mouth with his own. The kiss started out tentative but quickly surged into something more. While their lips stayed locked together like magnets, their bodies shifted, hands roaming and legs twisting until Bruno was all the way on top of him, pressed together from knee to shoulder.

Boots pulled back a fraction of an inch, close enough that their lips still brushed together when he said, "Now do you remember anything?"

Bruno rocked his hips forward. He smiled against Boots's involuntary whimper when their hard dicks brushed against each other through a few flimsy layers of clothing. "Who the hell cares?"

Boots smiled against Bruno's neck.His dick was leaking like crazy, hard and throbbing against the waistband of his shorts. Pressed up against him, he couldl tell Bruno was in a similar predicament. 

"Have you ever done this before?" Bruno asked him.

Boots let out a shaky laugh. "When exactly would I have done this?"

"I don't know, aren't people always giving you shit about what you got up to at an all-guys boarding school?"

"Okay, first of all, I was at that boarding school with you, so--" Bruno didn't let Boots finish his reply; he was already leaning down to capture Boots's mouth again, shuddering against Boots when their hard dicks met at just the right angle. 

There was something weirdly hot about it: Bruno needling him the same way that he always had, while he was also trying to hump him into the mattress. Boots rutted and rubbed up against him, slipping into a mindless, frantic rhythm. All at once, he began to feel hot and tight, a sensation that started in his balls but quickly spread to every part of his body. He knew he was getting close to losing it. He forced their mouths apart and Bruno started mouthing a trail along his jaw and down his neck. 

"I think," Boots said, "I'm gonna--"

"Yeah." Bruno panted, his breath humid against Boots's neck and his nose tucked behind Boots's ear. "Me too, I'm--"

Boots surged up one last time and came, collapsing back against the bed like his entire skeleton had been replaced with wobbly gelatin. When he opened his eyes, he saw Bruno looking down at him, pupils blown wide, his arms still as tense as steel cables and his rock-hard dick still pressed against Boots's leg.

"Hey, c'mon," Boots said. He reached down to grip Bruno's ass, urging him to keep moving, to rut against him until he tipped over the edge too, his sweaty forehead braced against Boots's neck, the warm wet splash of his come mixing with the mess Boots had made a few moments earlier. 

After he came, Bruno's arms finally gave out on him. He shifted the bulk of his weight off Boots, but kept an arm and a leg wrapped around him with his head resting on Boots's shoulder. 

"Wow," Bruno said. "That was--"

"Yeah."

"But now we're kind of--"

Boots shifted with discomfort, aware of the rapidly cooling load of come in his underwear. "Yeah."

They pulled apart and Bruno slipped out of the bed. Boots watched as he stripped off his t-shirt and underwear. He used the shirt to wipe up the mess splattered across his stomach and then he leaned over to rummage through his laundry basket. Boots felt his pulse quicken. He pretended not to look out of habit, before he remembered that he maybe didn't have to do that anymore.

He still couldn't believe that this was happening. He'd spent literal years of his life alternating between doing everything he could to avoid staring at Bruno's naked ass and stealing glances every chance he got. He felt giddy and and also a little terrified, like a kid who'd woken up inside the world of his favorite comic book.

"Do you want some clean underwear?" Bruno asked, pulling out a pair for himself. 

"I know we just, you know--" Boots once again resorted to waving his hand in the vicinity of his crotch, feeling like an idiot. "But now you want to share boxers?"

Bruno laughed. "Did you forget about the Leaning Tower of Laundry?" he asked, referring to their nickname for the pile of dirty clothes that had been a permanent fixture in their room when they'd been at Macdonald Hall. "I'm pretty sure there's still a couple pairs in here that started out as yours."

"Yeah, you got me there." 

Boots crawled out of the bed, stripping off his own clothes and trying not to drown in crashing waves of self-conscious embarrassment. Using his own shirt, he did his best to clean himself up. From across the bed, Bruno tossed him a clean pair of boxer shorts. He reached out to catch them and then put them on. 

He looked at the bed, wondering what he was supposed to do now. Bruno caught him looking and raised his eyebrows.

"Melvin, get in the goddamn bed."

So, they both climbed back in bed. Boots curled up on his side, facing the center of the mattress. Bruno was once again lying on his back, and Boots wasn't sure how much it was permissible to touch now that they weren't in the middle of rubbing off on each other. 

Bruno looked over at him, eyes flashing in the darkness. "C'mon, you're thinking too loud," he said, and then, "Give me your hand."

Boots held his hand out, feeling confused. 

Bruno took his hand and deposited it on his own stomach. Earlier, Boots had done a fair amount of feeling Bruno up through his clothes, but that was nothing compared to the warmth of his bare skin.

"Sleep now," Bruno said. "Freak out tomorrow. Okay?"

"Okay."

Just like that, the emotional whiplash of the last three days seemed to catch up with him all at once. He let himself sink into the bed, breathing in the salty smell of their mingled sweat. Before he knew it, he was out like a light.

"Oh my God, what did we do last night?" Boots let head flop back down onto the pillow.

"Are you seriously telling me you don't remember last night either? Do you have some kind of head injury I don't know about?"

Boots squeezed his eyes shut. His entire face felt clenched up like a fist. Whatever magic well of courage he had tapped into last night had dried up, and the endless river of fear and anxiety was flowing again. "No, I mean, I remember what happened, but what did we _do_?"

"C'mon, dude, I know you never got much action when we were in school--"

Boots tensed up and started to pull away, but Bruno slung an arm around his waist and held him in place. "You worry too much," Bruno said. 

Boots huffed. He opened his eyes to shoot an accusing glare at Bruno. "I'm hopelessly neurotic, you're pathologically easy-going. That's how this friendship works, you know that."

Bruno considered this for a moment. "You don't need to puke or anything, right?"

"No."

"Okay," Bruno said. "So, hey, we're already doing better than last weekend."

Bruno reached forward and spread his own hand on top of Boots's, rubbing his thumb across the sensitive skin between Boots's thumb and forefinger. "I don't know what we're doing, but I know I want to keep doing it."

"Uh, I haven't brushed my teeth," Boots offered, trying not to feel presumptuous. 

"Yeah? Me neither."

Boots tilted his head towards the bathroom. "So, maybe let's get up and do that real quick, and then--"

"No way." Bruno slid his hand down, planting it on Boots's thigh. "Don't move."

Boots's words sounded strangled coming out of his mouth, but he managed to offer one more feeble protest. "I don't know about you, but my mouth tastes like dog food when I first wake up."

"That's okay," Bruno said. "I'll improvise." 

"What do you--"

Bruno tucked his thumb into the waistband of Boots's boxers. 

" _Oh_ ," Boots said. The way his breath had already started to come out in short pants would have been embarrassing if he could be bothered to care. "Okay. Yeah. Improvise away."

**Chapter Four  
Another Relationship Milestone that Involves Puking**

A week later, he was sitting up in Bruno's bed, drinking a glass of water after his first attempt at giving a blowjob. Next to him, Bruno was still sprawled out and boneless. "Don't you think this is kind of weird?" Bruno asked him.

"What's weird?" Boots said, even though he was pretty sure he already knew the answer: _everything_. Lately, his entire life was one of those "spot the difference" brain teasers for kids, with two side-by-side pictures that looked identical and until you counted the number of flowers in the vase and compared the print of the cushions on the sofa.

That was how it felt. Upon first glance, the two scenes looked exactly the same, but in the picture on the left Bruno and Boots were best friends, and in the picture on the right they gave each other blow jobs. 

"Well, it isn't weird, I guess," Bruno said, "but it's weird how not weird it is."

"I ... did not follow that sentence."

"I mean, it's kind of weird that it didn't occur to us to do this until we were drunk on Aunt Phoebe's sangria," Bruno said. "It makes me wonder what else I'm not gonna realize I want until I'm plastered." 

For a minute, neither of them said anything. It was snowing outside, and they could hear the sound of a city plow chugging up and down the street. Then, Boots produced an audible gulp and said, "I have to tell you something."

"What?" 

"It occurred to me before that."

"Um, when?" Bruno asked. He didn't seem concerned; maybe just confused about why Boots sounded like he was about to confessing to a capital crime.

"Pretty much all the time," Boots said, choking back a shuddering laugh. "Starting, I don't know, probably from that time you stayed at school and missed spring break because I had the flu."

Bruno sat up behind him, scooting forward to press himself against Boots's back. "But that was when we were still at the Hall. That was, like, seven years ago."

"Yeah," Boots managed to croak out. "Tell me about it." 

"So you spent seven years secretly having the hots for me, and for the first two years we lived together in a shoebox and I paraded around in a towel six inches from your face?"

"Yeah, I know." Boots's shoulders tightened and he started to pull away. "You have every right to be mad. I'm sorry. It was a total violation of your trust."

"No, c'mon, shut up." Bruno leaned in closer, tucking his chin over Boots's shoulder to keep him in place. "That's not what I was trying to say. I'm not mad." 

"You really mean that?"

"It just sounds like a shitty time for you. So, you've known for a while, that you ... do you look at other guys?"

"I guess." Boots felt his cheeks start to flush. "I don't know. I spent a really long time being secretly hung up on someone I used to live with, I didn't really have time to look at anyone else."

"Since that time you had the flu, really?"

"At first I thought I was just feverish but then I got better and that part didn't go away, so."

Bruno didn't say anything for a moment, but then there was a low chuckle in his ear and soon Bruno's whole body was shaking with laughter. 

"What's so funny?" 

Bruno pressed his mouth against Boots's shoulder but continued to snicker helplessly. "Don't you get it?"

With his back still plastered to Bruno's front, Boots tried to elbow him in the ribs. "C'mon, I was afraid you'd hate me," he said. "It's not funny, asshole."

"It's--" Bruno was trying to get the words out but he couldn't stop laughing. "It's another--" He sputtered again and then finally managed to spit it out. "It's another relationship milestone that involves puking!"

Boots had to admit, that was pretty fucking funny. And then, neither of them could stop laughing, and then he had to get up and get _another_ glass of water for his hiccups. 

"Hey, Wilbur's having that Christmas party thing on Friday, right?"

Boots twisted around on the couch to look at Bruno. "I think so, yeah."

Bruno was standing in the kitchenette, trying to cook grilled cheese sandwiches on his little two-burner stove. When they'd finally recovered from their laughing fit, Bruno had declared that he was starving. Probably because it was the first time they'd left the bed for more than a bathroom break and it was almost three in the afternoon.

"So," Bruno said, "what are we gonna tell everyone about, uh, this whole thing?"

"I didn't think we were doing that."

"Why not? Are you ashamed to be seen with me or something?"

"No of course not. I just--what happens the next time you have a girlfriend, what are they going to think then?"

Bruno turned off the stove and busied himself with cutting the sandwiches into triangles. "Well, first of all, I'm not really looking for a girlfriend right now," he said. "Uh, kind of hope we're on the same page about that one." He came over to sit next to Boots on the couch and handed him a paper plate that was already developing oil spots under the pools of melted cheese. "Second of all, if that did happen? I guess they would think I like both, or whatever. Which is … the truth, I guess? I haven't really thought about that, have you?"

"I'm gay," Boots replied flatly. "I mean, what I meant was--" He gulped, twisting his body to face Bruno without actually looking at him. Instead, he studied the afghan where it was draped over the back of the couch. He reached out to poke his finger through the hole in the center of a crocheted rosette. "I was pretty sure I was, even before this happened, but ... yeah."

When he forced himself to look up, he saw concern flash across Bruno's face. "Do you care that I'm not?" Bruno asked. 

"No, oh my God, of course not." Boots stopped fidgeting with the afghan and rubbed his forehead with the heel of his palm. "Just … I never said that out loud before."

"Okay. That's good, then?" Bruno said, but like it was a question.

"Yeah, it's good. It's just--"

Over the last couple weeks, he'd refocused the energy he used to spend dreaming up improbable scenarios that would send the two of them falling into bed together. Now he imagined an endless series of different ways that what they were doing would fall apart. Someday soon, Bruno would realize that this whole thing had been a weird experimental phase. He would say that he'd been feeling adrift and confused about law school. He would decide that he had latched onto this thing with Boots because it felt familiar, but it had been a mistake. 

The best-case scenario was that Boots somehow managed to act calm when this happened. Then, they could pretend that the weeks they'd spent screwing around were an elongated continuation of one drunken mistake. But, if they told other people, especially people they'd known since they were a dynamic duo trying to stay two steps ahead of dishwashing duty, that was different. It was more permanent. There wouldn't be any opportunity for take-backs.

"I don't want you to do something you'll regret," Boots said.

"You know, part of the problem here is that I actually, like, know you."

"What do you mean?" 

"I mean, I _know_ you," Bruno said with added emphasis. He shot Boots a raised eyebrow. "I know you're just sitting around, waiting for the other shoe to drop."

"Maybe. So?"

"So, I don't know, knock it off."

"Knock it off?" Boots repeated back at him. "Gosh, that's some pep talk." He'd been aiming for biting sarcasm but knew he'd fallen short. 

He could pretend to be annoyed, but Bruno was right. He _did_ know him, the same way that he knew Bruno. Bruno knew that uncertainty made Boots freak out like Miss Scrimmage when somebody ate their soup with the dessert spoon. And Boots knew that Bruno's only acceptable mode of basic problem solving more closely resembled a campaign to overthrow the government of a small country. If Bruno thought something was going wrong, there'd be no way to miss it.

Bruno grinned at him, like he knew exactly what he was thinking. "Knock it off and eat your sandwich before the cheese gets all gross and cold?"

"That's the best you've got?"

"Knock it off, eat your sandwich and then I'll suck your dick?"

"Okay, that sounds like a pretty good plan."

"You know I always have the best plans. How long have I been saying that?"

"Sorry." Boots winced. "You're right. Just -- old habits, you know?"

"Ooh, does this mean it's time for another bedtime story about young Melvin O'Neal's years of hot repressed sexual longing?"

"Very funny." Boots tried his best to glare at him and knew it was a failed effort. "I'm glad it's so entertaining for you to hear about, because living it was kind of like being stuck in the first five minutes of a porno. On a loop. For years."

Bruno's expression softened. He leaned in to kiss him, hot and affectionate, like he couldn't decide if he wanted to screw Boots's brains out or wrap him up in the afghan and fix him a cup of hot chocolate. Boots tilted his head, letting his tongue trace Bruno's lower lip. He felt Bruno sigh into his mouth. "We've gotten a little bit further than that by now, though, right?" Bruno asked when he pulled back. 

Boots practically threw his plate in the direction of the coffee table box and pulled Bruno down on top of him. He let his hands drift down his back, over the sharp planes of his shoulder blades down to the waistband of his shorts. "Yeah," Boots said. He leaned up to kiss the corner of Bruno's eye, the spot next to his ear and anywhere else that was within reach. "We definitely have."

**Chapter Five  
Cathy's Revenge**

When they showed up at Wilbur's, they discovered that he thought it would be fun to do Christmas crafts. Because mixing scissors and booze was always a good idea. He'd set out stuff in the dining room to make paper snowflakes, decorate sugar cookies and string popcorn garlands. "I don't even know where he gets these ideas," his girlfriend said at one point, rolling her eyes. "I think he reads Martha Stewart magazines when I'm not home." 

Halfway through the night, Boots and Bruno ended up sitting together at the dining room table, using the tubes of gel icing to give their snowman sugar cookies giant dicks. They were so busy laughing at each other's work that neither of them noticed when Cathy walked into the room.

"Well, well," Cathy said. "Hey guys."

"Oh, hey." Boots gave Cathy a wary look.. 

"Okay, look, c'mon. Enough already. Can't you just admit that I finally got my revenge for the graduation incident?"

Boots frowned. "What are you talking about?" he asked. Next to him, Bruno looked equally confused, his hand frozen in mid-air. He still had a tube of icing wrapped in his fist and a string of blue gel was pooling beneath it. 

"First of all, in my defense, I told you at the time that my revenge would be legendary. So when I finally saw my opportunity, I had to go for it!" She shook her head. "Anyway, you were both being fucking obnoxious," she said. "Boots wouldn't stop singing, and _you_ \--" she pointed an accusing finger at Bruno, "you puked all over the back seat of my car."

Boots felt his stomach drop as it dawned on him that Cathy was talking about the night of the sangria incident. 

"So then," Cathy continued, "when I finally got to Bruno's apartment, both of you were, like, too drunk to stand up. I had to haul your asses up three flights of stairs, and then I practically had to strip search you because you were too wasted to find your keys." She rubbed her hands together, building up steam. "So when you were both about to pass out, I thought it would be hilarious if you woke up in bed naked and you couldn't remember how you'd gotten there. It took five whole years, but I finally got revenge for 'Ladies of Golden Light' and now you're acting like you're too cool to even admit you got pranked!"

"Uh, seriously?" Wibur was standing behind Cathy, in the doorway between the dining room and the kitchen. "You put them in bed together and took off their clothes?" he asked, sounding incredulous. "While they were passed out? That's kind of messed up."

Cathy scowled and threw her hands up in protest. "I just said, it was a joke!"

Boots pushed himself back from the table with a violent jerk. "I … gotta go," he said, making a beeline for the front door. 

Bruno caught up with him in the vestibule, trying to shove his feet into his snow boots without unlacing them. "Hey, hey," Bruno said. "Where are you going?" He reached out to put a hand on Boots's elbow, but Boots pulled away from him like his hand burned to the touch. 

"I'm just -- I'm sorry," Boots said. 

"What do you mean?"

"I'm such an idiot. I should have _known_ , you know?"

"Hey, hey, calm down," Bruno said, holding his palms up in a placating gesture. "Look, I get it, I want to kill Cathy, too. You wanna go slash her tires? Lemme just ask Wilbur if we can borrow one of his good kitchen knives."

"It's not that." Boots finished cramming his feet into his boots and stood up, drawing his arms across his chest. "I mean, yes, Cathy is a lunatic. Don't you get it, though? This whole time, I was sure I must have, like, taken advantage of you or something, and--"

"And what? Now you know. You didn't make me do anything. There's nothing to worry about."

Boots's eyes widened. "Are you kidding me right now?" he asked. "This might be worse! I made you go along with--"

" _Allegedly_ made me."

"No, stop it," Boots said, shaking his head. "Do you seriously not get it? I'm talking about after we woke up. I made you go along with thinking something must have happened because _that's how badly I wanted it_."

Bruno blinked at him. Boots could tell that he was so focused on being pissed at Cathy that he hadn't yet caught up to this train of thought. He watched as it finally dawned on Bruno: If Cathy was a lunatic who had set up them to think they'd slept together while they were blacked out, that meant that they ... hadn't actually slept together while they were blacked out. 

Bruno slowly opened his mouth. "That's not what--" he started to say, but then Boots cut him off. 

"No," Boots said. "Shut up. Just stop." He knew he sounded angry, but not like how Bruno was angry. Bruno was hot-headed and ready to try and slash Cathy's tires, but Boots felt cold and furious and desolate all at once. "You said it yourself." The sharp tone of Boots's voice turned his words into an accusation. "You said that you'd never even considered it before. Well, it turns out you'd never considered it at all, I just gave you, like, fucking gay Stockholm Syndrome."

Bruno hugged his arms to himself, rubbing his palms up and down his biceps. He'd run out of the apartment without grabbing his coat, and it was cold enough in the vestibule that they could see their breath coming out in violent puffs. "It wasn't like that," he said. 

"What was it like, then?" 

"I--I don't know."

"Yeah," Boots said, reaching for the doorknob. "Exactly." He opened the door to the outside, letting the icy cold air blast through him like knives, and then walked out and let the door swing shut behind him. 

**Chapter Six  
Antidisestablishmentarianism**

It was another weekend full of nausea and regret, but this time he couldn't even blame his hangover. Sam was visiting his girlfriend for a change, leaving Boots free to mope around the entire apartment instead of confining himself to his bedroom. On Sunday evening, he left the house for long enough to walk to the convenience store around the corner and buy some toilet paper and frozen burritos. When he got back to his apartment building, Bruno was sitting on the front steps.

"Well, here we are again," Bruno said. "Seriously, the next time you avoid me and make me hang around outside your apartment like a creepy stalker, do you think you could wait until the summer? It's too cold for this shit."

"What are you doing here?" 

"Look, you know how this ends," Bruno snapped at him. "Can we please just skip to the part where you can't avoid me forever?"

"So, you're pissed at me."

"Well, yeah, kind of."

"You're pissed. I get it. It's so messed up, because you're pathologically easy-going, that's the joke, right? But I shouldn't have been able to convince you to go along with believing that we had sex. That is a super shitty thing that I did to you, but it's also pretty fucking embarrassing for me, so can you please cut me a break?"

He moved like he was going to push past Bruno to walk into the building, but Bruno stood up and caught him by the shoulder.

"Antidisestablishmentarianism," Bruno said, the syllables jumbling together in a rush like a tongue-twister.

"Sorry, what?"

"You're proposing the disestablishment of our relationship and I'm, like … anti that. I'm opposed to that. Very opposed. Emphatically opposed."

He realized then that Bruno was parroting back his own version of a definition for the longest non-scientific word in the Oxford Canada Dictionary. Because of course he was. Only Bruno would remember something like that. "Our relationship is not the church of whatever that was."

"Well, it is to me."

Boots couldn't help but laugh. "What does that even mean?"

Bruno shook his head. "I don't know, it sounded good in my head," he admitted. "Look, I'm pissed at you for taking off on Friday and avoiding me _again_. I'm not … I'm not pissed about the other stuff. Stop me if you've heard this one before, but the only time I get pissed at you is when you avoid me." He glared over at Boots, who was still standing frozen at the foot of the steps like he'd been caught trying to burglarize his own apartment. "Well, okay, scratch that," Bruno said, seeming to reconsider his words. "I'm gonna be pissed if we can't just go up to your apartment already. It's fucking freezing out here."

They sat on opposite ends of the couch in Boots' living room. He hadn't turned on any of the lights, and it was that time of year when darkness started to sneak up into the early afternoon and dinner time might as well have been midnight. "I don't get it," he said. "How can you be okay with what happened?"

In the darkness, he could see Bruno's chest puff up. "Listen, he said, "I will do whatever it takes to convince you that I want this. I'll write a petition, I'll fund an ad campaign, I'll start a committee. We can go on sappy romantic dates. I'll invite you to Christmas with my parents. Remember the time that I thought you were going to have to switch schools and I got you a pool? I'll get you something bigger than a pool."

"I just -- you haven't thought this through." Boots protested. "It's a weird time right now. We just graduated, everybody's worried about drifting apart, it's easy to conflate that with--"

"Dude, that explains why Cathy's obsessed with getting people to show up at her house for game night every month." Bruno leaned forward and lowered his voice. "That doesn't explain why I like putting your dick in my mouth." 

"You can't--" Boots started to say, "you don't even know if you're--"

"Look, I don't know what happened!" The words exploded out of Bruno and he threw his hands up in a mix of frustration and surrender. "I don't know if I was repressed, I don't know if I was in denial my whole goddamn life, I don't know if I just woke up one day and a switch had flipped." He took a deep breath. "I know that it happened and I don't regret it and you've got to start believing me when I say that, because otherwise this is never gonna work."

He slid down onto the floor and knelt in front of Boots, bracing his hands against the couch cushions on either side of him. "I know that I want to keep doing this," Bruno said. "What about you?" he asked. "Do you want that?" 

"Yes!" Boots snapped back at him. 

"Okay!" Bruno exclaimed, his tone bordering on sarcastic. "Well, great, then!"

By that point they were practically shouting at each other; Boots's abrupt admission and Bruno's barked out response had all the romantic sentiment of a defense attorney badgering a witness on a cable TV crime procedural. Even as the disbelief started to bleed out of him, Boots's cheeks flushed with embarrassment. "Are you still mad at me?" he asked quietly.

"I'm not mad, you asshole, I love you."

Boots's eyes went very wide. "Okay. Well. Me too."

Bruno groaned, tipping his head forward between Boots's knees. "We're doing this all wrong," he said. 

Boots responded with a weary laugh. "What else is new?" He reached down and rubbed his hand down the back of Bruno's neck. "It's so weird--I feel like we're going through a major relationship milestone right now, but I don't want to puke."

"Well, that's good." Bruno clambered up to settle down right in Boots's lap, sitting on his heels and pressed up so close that his knees were brushing the back of the couch. "Because that would make this real awkward." Then he wrapped his arms around Boots's neck and leaned in to kiss him. 

After a few long minutes, Bruno pulled back and they both gulped for air like two guys who'd barely managed to avoid drowning. He shifted himself off Boots's lap but stayed close, plastering himself up against his side. "Where's Sam?" he asked.

"Manitoba," Boots said, feeling dazed. "I don't know if you want to stay here tonight, but either way, I gotta change. I've been wearing this sweater for three straight days."

Bruno pulled back to look him over. "Too bad," he said, running a hand up and down Boots's chest. "I always think you look hot in this sweater."

Boots gulped. "You think I'm hot?"

"No," Bruno said, giving him an exasperated eye-roll. "My secret kink is that I get off on having sex with people I find hideously unattractive."

Boots shook his head, hauling himself up from the couch and holding out a hand to pull Bruno up along with him. Once they were both upright, he twisted his grip to lace their fingers together, not wanting to let go as they walked down the hall to his bedroom. It was kind of corny, but they'd basically just professed their undying love for each other, so he figured it was allowed. 

**Epilogue  
Two Parts Crazy and One Part Mushy as Hell**

"So, we gonna just crash here?" Bruno asked, following him into his bedroom.

"Yeah, I think so," Boots said. "I'm kind of completely fucking exhausted, though, so I don't think I'm going to be much for…" He trailed off, giving Bruno a sheepish look.

Bruno let go of his hand and sprawled out on the bed. "You can write me an IOU," he said, though the last of his words were swallowed up by a wide-mouthed yawn. "But seriously, I think I could sleep for a week right about now." 

Boots stripped down to his underwear and put on a fresh t-shirt, because his apartment got chilly at night. He looked down at Bruno, who was trying to kick his way out of his jeans while still remaining horizontal. "Need a little help there?" he asked. 

Bruno grinned. "Always trying to get into my pants, huh?"

When they were both curled up together in bed under a pile of blankets, Boots thought of something else. "You know what the worst part is?" he asked.

"What?"

"I guess we kind of owe Cathy."

Bruno responded with a dismissive snort. "Yeah, owe her a beat down, maybe," he said darkly. "So, wait, this means our actual first time was that night I gave you a bloody nose?"

"You sacrificed your shirt for me." He shifted closer to Bruno and rubbed his nose in the hollow of his collarbone. "It was very romantic."

Boots had daydreamed up a million different ways that the two of them could end up in bed together. He'd never imagined a graduation ceremony prank that led to a massive hangover that led to a bloody nose, with a couple breaks in the middle for each of them to take turns puking their guts out. It was two parts crazy and one part mushy as hell, just like Bruno. Boots wouldn't have had it any other way.


End file.
